


Rude Awakening

by Emospritelet



Series: Drinking To Forget [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Gun Violence, Hurt No Comfort, Lacey being very confused, Lots of Crying, Misunderstandings, Rumple having his memories back, and yelling, sorry but it had to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: Detective Weaver became Rumplestiltskin with the strength of a kiss, but how will he react when the woman in front of him is the spitting image of his dead wife?Hint: not well :(





	Rude Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I will fix things...

Lacey waited for Weaver to answer, a lump in her throat making it difficult to swallow.  There was a strange ringing in her ears, a tension in the air between them that made her skin feel too tight.  His breathing was heavy, his lips parted, and he suddenly pushed back from her on rapid feet, eyes wide.

“Who are you?” he rasped, and she opened and closed her mouth.

“I - what?”

“Who _are_ you?”

His eyes were flashing dark fire, and he was almost snarling.  Her heart started to thump with fear, and she licked her lips.

“I - I’m Lacey,” she ventured.  “Lacey French?  The girl you’ve been sleeping with for months now?  The girl you just said you loved?”

He shook his head violently, lifting an accusing finger.

“No, no, no.”  His voice was a venomous whisper.  “You see, I knew a Lacey French.  Briefly.  And I knew Belle French, who became Belle Gold.  But that was decades ago.  A _lifetime_ ago.  You are _not_ her!  You can’t be!”

“I can - I can show you my I.D. if you—”

“ _She_ _died_!” he said, his voice thick with emotion.  “She died, and I buried my heart with her!”

She didn’t know what to say to that.  Part of her mind recognised that his accent had changed, but she filed the information away without thinking about it.  She backed away from him as he approached, his teeth clenched, his shoulders a little hunched.

“Who sent you?” he hissed.  “Who gave you that face, that name?  Is it her?  Is it that _witch_?  Does she think she can make me weak?  Does she think she can trick me by sending me fucking _ghosts_?”

“I - I don’t—”

_“Who sent you?”_

_“No one fucking sent me!”_ she shouted.  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!  What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

“Get out!” he spat, gesturing at the door.  “Out!”

“With fucking pleasure!” she snapped, and snatched up her coat, tugging it on and storming from the apartment.

The door slammed shut behind her, and the noise seemed to break something inside her.  Tears welled in her eyes, pouring down her cheeks, and she dashed them away angrily as she marched up the street.  One moment the guy she loved asked her to move in, and the next he turned into a total asshole.  Stood to bloody reason.

* * *

As soon as she was gone, he raced for the shower, tearing off the clothes he had been cursed to wear and turning the water on full.  He scrubbed at his skin in a frenzy, wanting to cleanse every inch of himself, even doing between his fingers and under his nails to remove every last trace of her.  Flashes of memory flitted through his mind: lifting her up and shoving her against the wall so that he could push inside her, the feel of her around him, hot and wet and perfect.  The sounds she made when she came.  He tried to push the images from his mind as he scrubbed harder, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.  By the end of it his skin was pink and tingling and he dropped the loofah, lower lip trembling as he began to cry.  He leaned against the tiles with splayed hands, his body shaking as he wept, as bitter, heavy grief wrapped itself around him once more.

His body was wracked with sobs as the full force of what he had done hit him, the realisation of who he was, and what had happened.  His true love, lost to him forever.  In this life, anyway.  His son unaware of their connection, of his true identity.  And Bae.  Always the loss of Bae was almost too much to bear.  He wept for it all, until his throat hurt and his eyes were stinging and he had nothing left in him to pour out.  Weariness followed in its wake, and he pushed himself upright and leaned back against the tiled wall, sliding down until he was sitting with his folded arms across his raised knees, the water cascading over him and mingling with his tears.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, Belle!” he whispered.  “I didn’t know, sweetheart!  I swear I didn’t know!”

He sat there for a long time, watching the water swirl down the drain with half an eye, until his fingertips began to pucker.  Telling himself that he couldn’t sit there all fucking night, he pushed to his feet on legs that shook a little, turning off the water.  The bathroom had filled with steam, and he padded naked to the mirror, its surface blurred with condensation.  Swiping a palm across it, he glowered at his reflection, water running down the glass like tears.  He could see it now, the darkness and pain in his eyes, born of centuries of dark deeds and loss and regret.  The guilt.  The grief.  The longing.

He ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes stinging again, as though he would start weeping anew.  Light glinted on the gold of his ring, the moonstone ring that Belle had once pushed onto his finger as they said their vows, and he pulled it off his right hand, slipping it onto his left.  His ring finger, where it belonged.  He pressed a kiss to it, eyes closed, in reverence for his lost love.

“I’ll see you again, sweetheart,” he whispered.  “I promise.”

* * *

He had the day off work, and he was grateful for it.  Although he was desperate to see Gideon, he was aware that he both looked and felt like shit, and he wasn’t convinced that in his fragile emotional state he wouldn’t simply break down and start crying on the shoulder of what would no doubt be a very perturbed Detective French.  He slept poorly that night, lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head, trying to think of nothing but Belle, and their life together.  Lacey kept pushing her way into his thoughts, unwelcome, insistent, and he finally turned onto his side and drew up his knees, squeezing his eyes shut as though that would rid his mind of her.

After much consideration, he had deduced that she must be cloaked in a glamour, a simple enough spell to cast, but difficult to maintain for any length of time.  Whoever had cast this one was powerful, powerful enough to make it last in this land.  He suspected a talisman of some sort, although she didn’t regularly wear any jewellery that he had seen.  A simple enough thing, to imbue a small object with magic, a well of power to be tapped when necessary; he himself had stored some in his wedding ring.  It could only ever be a small amount, it was true, but enough to keep a glamour in place.  He sat up with a jerk as he remembered that Lacey had the cup, but then recalled that Alice had given it to her.  That wasn’t her talisman, then.  Why would it be, after all?  She was not Belle.

He realised that he would have to get the cup back, but he decided not to take any action right away, telling himself that it was best not to see her when he was in his current emotional state.  Remembering the loss of Belle was hard enough without having to look at her doppelganger, created on the cruel whim of whomever was currently trying to fuck with him.  Lacey had certainly not been the one to cast the spell; he could feel no power in her, and as sparse as the magic was in this place, there were enough faint traces of it for him to sense that.  Just not enough to be useful.

He finally drifted into sleep at around four, and groaned when his alarm went off two hours later.  The return of his memories had not given him back his lack of need for sleep.  Nor the magic he would need to continue his search for the Guardian.  He showered again, more to wake himself up than for any other reason, and drank two cups of strong coffee that made his stomach uncomfortably acidic.  The thought of food made him queasy, so he skipped breakfast.  Going through his wardrobe made his lip curl, but he was aware that he needed to keep up the pretence of being Weaver, so he chose the darkest and best of the shirts he had - which happened to be the one Gideon had bought him for Christmas - pairing it with dark jeans and boots.  His reflection in the mirror made him sigh, but it was the best he could do, and at least this way no one else who was awake would suspect him.  There must be at least one person who knew what the hell was going on, after all, and he had no intention of tipping them off to the Dark One waking.

Already in a foul mood, he left the house for the precinct, parking up and heading for the entrance on foot.  Gideon would be on duty already, and the thought of being near his son made his heart lighten a little.  Hopefully something interesting would have come up on his day off, and he could bury himself in work until he felt able to concentrate on how to find the Guardian, and get the two of them back to their land.  Three of them, if Alice came along, and he suspected she would want to.  He frowned as he stopped abruptly, fingers drumming against his thigh.  Alice.  She clearly knew more than he had, if she had seen fit to recover the cup and Belle’s book, and his ring.  Snatches of teasing conversation resurfaced in his mind, Alice saying that Gideon could be his son, that he himself was a changeling child.  Was she awake, or was it merely her subconscious at work?  He had to talk to her.  Just as soon as he felt mentally strong enough to be sure he wouldn’t break down.

As he approached the entrance, a man left the building and turned onto the street, almost walking into him.  George King stepped back on one foot to avoid the collision, and the two large men flanking him closed ranks, as though almost barging into someone counted as some sort of assassination attempt against their employer.  King’s mouth flattened.

“Detective Weaver,” he said, in a low drawl.  “Imagine seeing you here.”

“Yes, the police detective on his way to the station,” said Rumple dryly.  “Whoever would have seen that coming?”

He made to step around them, but one of the hulking men side-stepped, blocking his path.  Rumple met his eyes calmly, anger beginning to burn and seethe in the pit of his stomach.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” he said quietly.

The man didn’t move, just stared at him placidly with those dead eyes, until King tapped his arm.

“Now, Mr Knight, let’s not obstruct this fine, upstanding representative of city law and order,” he said, in a mocking tone.  “I’m sure there are many important mysteries just waiting to be solved.”

“Well, if I ever get to the bottom of them, I suspect you’ll be the first to know,” said Rumple, sounding far less irritated than he felt.  He jerked his head at King’s bodyguard.  “Go on, fuck off.”

Expressionless, the man stepped aside, and Rumple sent him a thin smile.

“Always a pleasure, Mr King,” he said dryly.

“Likewise.”

King was watching him closely, and Rumple could feel eyes on the back of his neck as he swaggered past.  He waited for the man to speak.  Why was it that villains always had to have the last fucking word?  In fairness, he supposed he’d been guilty enough of that himself in the past.   _Wait for it..._

“Oh, and by the way, Detective,” called King, making Rumple smirk.  “Send any more of your spies after me and I won’t be responsible for my actions, do you understand me?”

Rumple turned slowly, spinning on the balls of his feet.

“If the police are turning up to question you, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“I’m not talking about the police,” said King coldly.  “I’m talking about whoever it is you sent to go through my personal papers.  Breaking into my office.  Pushing in _where they don’t belong._ ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rumple, in his most derisive tone.

“Oh, I think you do,” said King, his eyes flashing.  “Stay out of my business if you don’t want me extending my long reach into yours.”

“Is this how you approach all your conversations with those you consider beneath you?” asked Rumple.  “Little wonder you’ve scared off all the competition, I suppose.  Dark deeds beget dark results, I’m sure.”

King raised his chin a little, staring down his nose.

“You’ll regret crossing my path, Detective,” he said quietly.  “I guarantee it.”

“Is that a threat?”  Rumple showed his teeth.  “You’ll forgive me if I’m not shaking in my boots.  Heard it all before, you see.”

King fixed him with a stare.

“I mean what I say,” he rasped.  “I’m a man of business, but I can be ruthless, believe me.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Rumple, in a bored voice.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He sauntered into the building, shaking his head.  Whoever had been going through King’s papers was nothing to do with him.  Although he would have liked to know what they found there.  Officers tried to greet him, but he ignored them, mouth set in a grim line as he strode along the corridor and into the investigation centre.

“Weaver!” called a voice.

Gideon was waving at him, and it was all he could do not to run over and hug him.  His son.  He blinked rapidly, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat and hoping he wouldn’t start crying in the middle of the precinct.  His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms to remind him that to Gideon he was Detective Weaver.  That his son was Detective French.  He nodded briskly, walking over.

“French,” he said.  “What have you got for me?”

“I was expecting you half an hour ago,” said Gideon.  “Lieutenant Griffin’s on the warpath, by the way.  Something about a complaint from George King.  She presumes it’s you that’s given him reason to come over here.”

“Oh, fuck him,” said Rumple dismissively, sitting down.  “He can shove his complaint.  The man’s mixed up in multiple murders, and I’m gonna bloody get to the bottom of it.  If he thinks he can scare me off by running to Griffin, he can kiss my arse.”

“Yes, she thought you might say that,” said Gideon, sounding amused.  “She’s asked you to be a little less obvious with your hatred of the man.  At least until we have some firm evidence.”

He grunted at that.  Sensible advice, he supposed.

“Are you alright?” asked Gideon.  “You seem a little…”

“I’m fine,” he said curtly.  “Did we get those lab results back?”

Gideon eyed him for a moment, but then reached for a brown folder on his desk and opened it up.

“One long red hair, no result from the records and we don’t know that there’s any connection to the murderer,” he read out.  “Body was asphyxiated and the heart was removed after death with a sharp-bladed implement, believed to be a hunting knife.  The rope used for the noose was the same as on the first body, and the noose was tied in the same way.  Lends credence to the killer being the same person, but we have no forensics that confirm that, as yet.  No I.D. on the second body yet, so we’re checking the Missing Persons files.”

“Good.”

Rumple drummed his fingers on the desk, shifting in his seat.   _One long red hair_.  He told himself that he had to stop thinking that Zelena was behind everything that went wrong in his life, but there were too many suspicions niggling at his brain to make him dismiss her completely, and the prospect of her being in Hyperion Heights made him nervous.  He was itching to get into the evidence room, to find what he knew was stored there.  Something that Weaver’s mind told him had been placed there years ago and all but forgotten, but he knew that in reality it could have been no more than six months.  Highly unlikely that anyone would have seen it before now, or taken it, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure.  He had been toying with an idea.  There was something familiar about the murders.  Something he thought he could remember reading once.

“I want you to look into ritual killings,” he said, a little hesitantly.  “Anything you can find, no matter how odd you think it might be, okay?”

“You think that’s what we have?” asked Gideon curiously.  “You think it’s - I don’t know - maybe some sort of weird cult, or something?”

“I don’t know.”  He ran a hand over his face with a sigh.  “It’s just an idea, that’s all.”

“I’ll see what we have on file first,” suggested Gideon, his eyes brightening at the prospect of research.  “And - and I think I remember reading something about ritual murder a couple of months ago.  I’m sure there’s lots of information out there for me to dig through.”

“Good.”  He pushed out of his chair, beginning to pace back and forth as he chewed his lower lip.  “Good.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” said Gideon.  “Did you have too much coffee this morning, or something?”

“Maybe I haven’t had enough,” he said, and strode over to the coffee pot sitting on its hotplate, grasping a mug from the rack beside it.  Gideon followed him, concern seeming to battle with curiosity on his face.

“How’s Lacey?” he asked, and Rumple froze momentarily before resuming his pouring.

“We broke up,” he said stiffly, in a tone that didn’t invite further comment.  Gideon’s eyebrows rose.

_“What?”_

“Nevermind,” he said coldly.  “Can we get on with investigating these bloody murders?  I might as well have success in one area of my life.”

“But - but last time i was at your place, you both seemed so happy,” said Gideon, looking as though his world had fallen apart.  “I don’t understand, did - did one of you do something?”

“Gid—”

He cut off before he could say something stupid, and concentrated on a dark scuff mark on the floor, trying to steady himself.  When he looked up again his expression was as smooth as he could make it.

“Look, French, I’d prefer not to discuss it, if that’s alright,” he said, more calmly.  “The whole thing’s still pretty raw.”

“Right,” said Gideon, looking as though he could understand that, at least.  “Of course.  No problem.”

He nodded, and set down the coffee cup, picking up one of the files on his desk.  There was silence for a moment as he sat there reading over the file, but nothing was going in.  It was almost a relief when Gideon spoke again.

“Alice didn’t check in, by the way,” he said, and Rumple stilled.

“When was she due to see you?”

“Last night.”  Gideon sat down on the edge of the desk.  “I even swung by the warehouse this morning.  None of the other kids had seen her, or knew where she was.”

“Not like her,” he said, with a frown.  “Any idea where she might be?”

“She said she was going to look into George King, and this mystery woman.  I told her to wait to speak to you, but she said she had a lead.”

“Dammit!”  He threw the file down on the table, King’s remarks suddenly making sense.  “I told her to put a tail on him, not bloody well turn up at his offices!”

“Oh, I’m not sure if that was what she was doing…”

“Knowing her it bloody well was!  Gods give me strength!”  He leaned back in his chair with a sigh.  “Right, well, we’d better go look for her.  We’ll start with the warehouse.”

“I told you, I went over—”

“We’ll try again,” he said insistently, pushing to his feet.  “That’s two days in a row she hasn’t turned up at my place looking to eat me out of house and home.  It’s not like her.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“If she’s gotten herself killed, I swear by all the gods I’ll bloody resurrect her and kill her again!” he snapped, and stomped out, worry making his skin tingle.  Where the hell was she?

* * *

Alice was not at the warehouse, and nor were any of the numerous kids that lived there with her.  They checked her usual haunts, but there was no sign of her.  In desperation, Rumple led Gideon to the troll bridge, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his lower lip drawing up over his teeth as he looked around.

“I can’t believe she was bloody stupid enough to go to King’s fucking offices!” he snapped.  “If he caught her, there’s no telling what could have happened.”

“He almost did.”

Alice’s voice made them look around, and Rumple felt his heart unclench as he saw her, creeping around the side of the stone troll with the hood of her coat pulled up to hide her features a little.

“He had two of his men chase me,” she went on.  “Big ugly brutes, both of them.  I didn’t want to lead them back to the warehouse, so I lay low.”

“Oh, thank God!”  He stormed across to pull her into his arms for a hug, making her squeak in surprise.  “I thought you were fucking dead!”

“Nine lives, me,” she said, sounding a little shaky.  She was hugging him back, though.  “I’m okay, really.  They almost had me, but I managed to get away.  Crawled into the sewers and hid until I could be sure they’d gone.  Thought it was best to keep off the streets, so I stayed down there until daylight.”

He pulled back, cupping her face with his hands and glaring.

“Never do that again,” he said sternly.  “French and I were out of our minds!”

“ _He_ was,” said Gideon, with a grin.  “I told him you’d be okay.”

Alice beamed, blue eyes sparkling.

“See, I knew you cared, Detective,” she said.  “I was careful, really I was!  And I think you’ll appreciate what I’ve got for you.”

“Right.”  He patted her upper arms, letting his hands drop to his sides.  “Right.  Well, let’s find somewhere to talk.  Are you hungry?  Thirsty?”

“Wouldn’t say no to anything, I’m starving,” she said, and he nodded, steering her towards the burger van.

“Cheeseburger with everything,” he told the vendor, and the man nodded.

Once the cheeseburger was prepared, fries put into a paper cone, and iced tea poured into a takeout cup, Alice carried them to the nearest bench  She licked her lips, opening up the cardboard container to pick up the burger with both hands, and took a large bite, chewing with noises of enjoyment as Rumple sat across from her.

“You can have another when you’ve eaten that, if you like,” he said.  “What did you find out?”

Alice swallowed, wiping a smear of ketchup from her chin and picking up a sheaf of thin fries between finger and thumb.

“Okay, so King’s definitely mixed up in something weird,” she said.  “There wasn’t much of interest in his offices - drawers full of invoices and company records, none of which I had time to go through - but I’ve been working my way in through the staff.  Got chatting with one of the office workers taking a cigarette break a couple of weeks ago.”

She pushed the fries into her mouth, sucking salt from her fingers, and Rumple frowned.

“You didn’t say anything about this new lead.”

“Didn’t know if it was gonna go anywhere, that’s why,” she said.  “Anyway, she and I hung out a few times, and eventually I got her talking.”

“About what?”

She took another bite of the burger and chewed, taking a slurp of her iced tea before she answered.

“The woman in the cloak has been visiting him for a couple of months now,” she said.  “Once, sometimes twice a week.  No one knows her name; the staff are just told that she’s coming at a certain time, that she’ll be let in at the back stairs and no one is to stop her going to his office.”

“Seems guaranteed to arouse suspicion,” said Gideon.

“Did you get a description?” asked Rumple, and Alice shook her head.

“Other than that she’s white?  No.  She keeps the hood pulled up, so I don’t even have a hair colour to give you.”

“And what is she there for?”

Alice picked up some more fries and pushed them into her mouth.

“They all think she’s banging him,” she said.  “My guess is it’s something else.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Rumple, and she leaned forward with a grin.

“Because my sweet little informant just happened to let slip that there was a locked room in his office.  A room that no one but him is allowed to have the key for.”

“No doubt it was too tempting to pass up,” said Rumple dryly, and her grin widened.

“You don’t survive on the streets without learning a few tricks,” she said.  “Took me less than a minute.”

“So what was in there?”

“Well, that’s what was weird,” she said pensively.  “The place was like a _shrine_.  Just - just pictures all over the place of this young guy.  Sports trophies, football shirts - did King ever have a son?”

“Not that I was aware of,” said Rumple, with a frown.  “French, can you look into that?”

“I don’t remember seeing anything in the files,” said Gideon thoughtfully.  “But then it wasn’t something we were looking for.  I can dig a little deeper.”

“Might explain why he was so furious when he told me about the break-in this morning,” said Rumple.  “What did the young man look like?”

Alice screwed up her nose.

“Handsome, if you like that sort of thing,” she said.  “Blue eyes.  Nice arms, I guess.  Sort of - wholesome.  But not in a bad way.”

“Anything else?”

“King flipped his shit when he saw me come out of there,” she said.  “I wasn’t sure I’d make it out alive.  Had to duck and roll when one of his gorillas tried to grab me.”

“Well, don’t go back there again,” he said firmly.  “Keep your eyes and ears open, but no more exploring his offices, understand?”

She flipped him a salute, sucking tea through the straw as her eyes flicked over him.

“You’ve moved your ring,” she observed, and instinctively he clenched his fist.

“I have.  So?”

“Nothing,” she said.  “It just looks - right.”

He looked at her, trying to see if she knew more than she was letting on, but the comment appeared to have been casual.  She picked up her burger again, taking a large bite, and he rubbed his thumb over his wedding ring, wondering what it would take to wake her, too.

* * *

Lacey had never thought she could be so miserable.

She had made it home before she properly burst into tears, throwing herself onto her bed and sobbing.  How could he turn from a man who loved her to one who looked at her as though she was a stranger?  Worse, a stranger who meant him harm, who had been sent there by someone to trick him?  She couldn’t understand what he had meant by that; he had called her Belle, but then said that Belle was dead, and the grief in his eyes had been real and terrible.  She had wanted to touch him then, to kiss him and hold him, and the strength of her own protective instincts had surprised her.  But he had stayed back from her, glaring as though they were enemies.  There had been no trace of the man who had said he loved her.

She would have liked to crawl beneath the covers and stay there, but she had the afternoon shift at Mr Cluck’s, and so an hour before she was due to start work, she dragged herself upright and into the shower.  She couldn’t imagine something she felt less like doing than going to work, but she had to make rent, and she supposed that it would at least take her mind off things.  Jacinda frowned when she entered, looking her over.

“What’s up?” she asked.  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Great,” said Lacey dully, tying an apron around herself.  “Did the best I could.  Is it really obvious?”

“You might want to wrap some ice in a napkin and put it on your eyes.”

Lacey pulled a face.

“Fuck it,” she said, with feeling.  “If the customers don’t like the person who serves fried fucking chicken having puffy eyes, they can choke.”

“Wow,” remarked Jacinda, leaning back from the counter.  “Bad break-up?”

“The worst,” muttered Lacey.

“Officer Orgasm lose his touch, then?” she asked, with a grin, but the joke didn’t make Lacey smile.

“No, he just turned into a total asshole like every other male of the species,” she said miserably.  “Seriously, if a guy says he loves you and asks you to move in, you don’t expect him to turn around two minutes later and kick you out, right?”

“He asked you to move _in_?”  Jacinda’s eyes had widened.  “I had no idea you two were that serious.”

“I think the thing to focus on is the kicking out part,” said Lacey dryly.

“Sucky thing to do,” Jacinda agreed.  “How did it happen?”

“God, I don’t know!”  Lacey grabbed a tray of chicken with a sigh.  “Honestly, I don’t think I’m up to talking about it right now, because I have no clue what’s going through his head.”

“Okay, sure.”  Jacinda reached out and squeezed her shoulder.  “We can talk about it later, if you want.  I’d say let’s go for a drink, but…”

“Yeah, I know, you have Lucy to think of,” said Lacey.  “I get it.  Don’t worry about it, I can get totally shitfaced without any help whatsoever.”

She carried the chicken through to dump it in the fryer, not caring if hot oil splashed on her arm.  Blisters would just about round off this day as the crappiest ever.

* * *

Her day got no better as it went on, and she had to bite her tongue several times when the female customers were rude, or the male customers told her to ‘smile’.

“I’m here to serve up mediocre fried food, not give you a boner!” she snapped at the last one, who recoiled, blinking at the unexpected response.

“Okay, why don’t I take over?” said Jacinda firmly, taking her by the upper arms and steering her towards the kitchen.  “Shift’s almost over, go get your coat.  I’ll cover.”

“But - the clean-up…” protested Lacey.

“I’ll cover,” insisted Jacinda.  “Go home.”

Her eyes sent a silent message: _before you say something that’ll get your ass fired._  Lacey took the point.

“Fine,” she sighed.  “Thanks.”

She cleaned up a little in the kitchen, nonetheless, and was pulling on her coat when Jacinda put her head around the door.

“Someone’s here,” she said.  “And he wants to talk to you.”

“If it’s that creep I told to go fuck a fire-hydrant—”

“Not him,” said Jacinda, with a grin.  “This is someone I think you might want to see.”

Lacey’s heart lifted a little.  Had he come to see her?  To tell her there had been some terrible mistake, and he hadn’t known what he was saying?  She tugged the coat around her and walked quickly through to the counter, but Weaver wasn’t there.  Instead, French was smiling at her, looking as immaculate as ever in his black overcoat and shirt above black jeans.  The scarf she had bought him was wound around his throat and looped neatly through itself.  Her face fell a little, and his smile turned wry.

“Not who you wanted to see, hmm?” he asked.

“Sorry, it’s just—”  Lacey waved a hand.  “Never mind.  What are you doing here?”

“Thought I might buy you a drink,” he offered.  “I think you probably need to talk.”

“Well, I definitely need a drink,” she acknowledged, and turned.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jacinda, okay?”

“Take care of yourself,” said Jacinda, and Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Always do, you know me.”

She marched out of the chicken shop and turned down the street, heading in the direction of Roni’s bar.  French fell into step beside her, his long legs easily keeping pace, and she walked quickly.  She was aware that she probably stank of the fryers, but he had offered her a drink and she wasn’t about to say no.  One drink, and then she could go home and change.  The night was young, after all.

“Did Weaver send you?” she asked, almost cringing as she voiced her last, faint hope.

“I’m sorry, no.”  He was silent for a moment.  “He - um - he told me you broke up.”

“Really?”  Her laugh was hollow.  “Well, he told you more than he told me, then.”

She almost barged into Roni’s, spying an empty table, and French headed for the bar.  It was warm and humid, and she shrugged out of her coat, not caring that she smelt of cooking oil.  By the time French reached her with a glass of whisky, and wine for him, she had calmed down a little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, and she pulled a face.

“To do that, I’d have to know what happened,” she said.  “One minute he tells me he loves me, and asks me to move in.  The next—”

She moved her hand across her throat in a slicing motion, and he winced.

“There must have been some reason.”

“If you find out, let me know,” she sighed.  “It was weird, it was like - like he became a different person, all of a sudden.  He hasn’t suffered any blows to the head recently?  I mean I kinda feel like giving him one myself, but did someone beat me to it?”

“Not that I know of.”  French took a sip of his wine.  “He was definitely brooding this morning, though.”

“What did he say?” she asked, a little nervously.  “About - about us?”

“That you’d broken up, and that he didn’t want to talk about it.”  He set down his glass.  “He said it was - too raw.  I thought maybe - maybe one of you had done something...”

He trailed off as she glared at him.

“What, you mean like maybe I cheated?” she demanded.  “Well, let me bloody well assure you—”

She cut off as French held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Okay, I believe you,” he said patiently.  “I do, I swear it.  It came as a total surprise to me.  You both - you both seemed so happy together.”

Lacey felt the tears start in her eyes again.   _Happy.  Yeah, I thought so too._  She dashed them away with the heel of her hand, and French hesitated before putting an arm around her.  That one gesture of affection made her cry more.

“I’m sure you can work things out,” he said, sounding ridiculously optimistic.  “If it makes you feel any better, I think he’s pretty miserable right now.”

“Good!” she said fervently, and he chuckled.

“You should talk to him,” he said.  “And not just because he’s snapping at everyone in the building.  I think you both need to.  Talk, that is.”

“I don’t even understand why he’s upset,” she said, hating the plaintive tone in her voice.  “He was so _angry_.  Like - like I’d tricked him, or something.”

French kissed her forehead.  It was nice.  Comforting.

“You should try asking him,” he said, and she sniffed, brushing tears from her eyes.

“He won’t talk to me,” she said miserably.  “He yelled a bunch of stuff that doesn’t make sense and then threw me out.  I - I don’t know what else to do!”

“Well, he’ll probably be in here in an hour or so,” said French blithely, and she sat up with a jerk.

“He’s coming _here_?”

“Is he gonna come to his usual bar and drown his sorrows after a fight with his girlfriend?”  French’s voice was very dry.  “Odds are high, I’d say.”

Lacey scrambled upright.

“And you’d let me sit here stinking of fried bloody chicken?”  She pushed to her feet, downing her whisky.  “Like I’m gonna let him see me crying in the corner in this crappy work outfit like a fucking loser!  Fuck _that_!  Fuck _him_!”

“Right…”  French looked perplexed.  “Um - you want me to walk you home?  It’s on my way.”

“Well, I have to shower and change if I’m gonna look hot enough to burn him if he so much as looks at me, right?” she said, with as much confidence as she could fake, and he grinned.

“I’m not entirely sure what your motivation is for this endeavour, but I support it.”

Lacey couldn’t help grinning at that.

“God, you’re such a nerd, French,” she said.  “But also pretty cool.”

* * *

Rumple worked as late as he could, digging through files and writing up reports.  It was work that Weaver had despised, but he was doing anything that would take his mind off his current predicament, and it was useful to read over reports of other crimes, just in case there was a pattern there that he had missed.  He spent some time in the evidence room, looking through many of what were bagged and tagged as pieces of evidence in numerous cases, but which were in truth his old possessions.  Relics of another life.  A happier life.  The dagger was still there, locked in a box and pushed to the back of a shelf.  He took it out and glared at it, hating it, the light glinting on the fluted blade.  He could feel no power in it in this land, and it was almost a relief, the knowledge of what it was, of what it had done to him, making his heart feel heavy.  Placing it carefully back in the box, he locked it again, and pushed it back in place on the shelf.  It would be safe there, at least.  Safe enough until he could find the way to loosen its hold on him, and find his way back to Belle.

His work was completed all too soon, and he rubbed tired eyes, pushing back his chair and standing up to grab his coat.  He had to remember that he wasn’t immune to fatigue in this world.  He wasn’t even sure he was immortal.  He nodded to the officers on duty as he left the building, heading briskly down the street to Roni’s.  His car could stay where it was.  He intended to get drunk, and a few large whiskies in the bar would set him up nicely for what was waiting at home.  The place was busy, the tables full, and so he took a seat at the bar, leaning on it with folded arms and catching Roni’s eye.

“Detective,” she said pleasantly.  “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Whisky, please,” he said.  “Make it a large one.”

“Sure thing.”

She turned away to reach for a glass, and poured a measure, pushing it across the bar to him.  He picked it up, throwing half of it back in one go, relishing the burn in his throat and the fire in his nostrils.  Roni was watching him curiously, dark eyes calculating.  She definitely wasn’t awake, but there was a trace of Regina there, showing in the set of her jaw, and the way she wouldn’t stand for any crap from her patrons.  He wondered what it would take to wake her up.  Henry was around, so there was a possibility of the True Love they shared coming into play.  Not his problem.  Not yet, anyway.  Better for them that they stayed ignorant.  Far better, considering what he might have to do if it was indeed Zelena seeking to ruin his life again.  But first, some casual enquiries.  Just in case he was going mad.

“I’m on the lookout for someone,” he said.  “Reddish blonde hair.  English.  Walks around like she owns the place.”

“Did Victoria Belfrey dye her hair?” she asked, amused, and he gave her a thin smile.

“Far less classy,” he said, a small, petty part of his soul enjoying taking a dig at Zelena.  “She might wear a lot of green.  Fond of ridiculous hats.”

“Well, I can’t say I recognise the description,” she mused.  “What did she do?”

“At this point I’m not sure,” he said.  “Just a hunch.”

“If I see her, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Roni wiped at a spot on the bar that didn’t need it, and he took another drink, waiting for her to say whatever was clearly on her mind.

“So, it’s been almost a week since you outraged public decency in this place,” she said.  “What gives?”

He ignored her, downing the last of his whisky and pushing the glass across the bar.

“Another.”

She rolled her eyes, but poured him another measure.

“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.  “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say someone broke your heart.  Maybe someone with blue eyes.”

“Leave it, Roni,” he said.  “I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, I can see that.”  She pushed the glass towards him.  “She was too young for you, anyway.  It would never have worked out.”

“I said leave it!” he snapped, and she rolled her eyes again.

“Suit yourself.  She was in here, you know.  With that partner of yours.”

He looked up sharply.

“Lacey was here with French?”

“Got it in one.”  She put her head to the side.  “Is that what the problem is?  She throw you over for the younger model?”

His eyes widened.

“Why, what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” she said.  “Nothing that _I_ saw, anyway.  She was crying, and he put his arm around her.”

“Right,” he said.  “Okay.  Good.”

“Of course, they left together,” she added.  “So who knows what happened then?”

“Has anyone ever told you you need to work on your sympathetic bartender act a little more?” he snapped, and she gave him a wry smile.

“Well, I’m just telling you what I saw,” she said, glancing over his shoulder.  “But you could always ask her yourself.”

He opened his mouth to tell her to piss off, but then a familiar scent entered his nose and he felt a presence beside him.  Lacey was looking at him, clad in a blue sequined dress with her hair wound up on her head and most of her legs showing.

“Hey,” she said, in an offhand tone, and he looked away.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a public bar, isn’t it?” she said stiffly, and nodded to Roni.  “Can I get a whisky?  Biggest fucking whisky you can give me.”

“Coming right up,” said Roni, looking amused, and turned away to pour the drink.

Lacey leaned on the bar, huffing a stray hair off her face, and he contemplated just downing his drink and leaving.  No.  First he needed to find out what she was doing there, and who had sent her.  If indeed she could tell him.

“I heard you were in here earlier,” he said.  “With French.”

“So?  Why do you care?”

It was easier if he didn’t look at her.  If he didn’t see Belle’s face every time he turned his head.  He stared straight ahead, breathing in the scent of his whisky to mask her perfume.

“Just making conversation.”

“Really?” she drawled, picking up her drink.  “So, you want to talk?  What a pleasant surprise.”

He could see Roni watching them from a few feet away, eyes wide with curiosity.  He half-expected her to start eating popcorn, and his lip curled at the thought of his broken heart being some form of entertainment.  He glanced across at Lacey, and she was chewing her lip again, sadness in her eyes.  She caught him looking, and immediately squared her jaw, lifting her chin, as though she would snarl and bite at the world.  He almost admired it.  But she looked so much like Belle it made his heart hurt, and he turned away again.  He couldn’t do this.  Not now.

“No,” he said quietly.  “I don’t want to talk.”

He drained his glass, banging it down and reaching into his pocket for some money to throw on the bar before turning away.

“Oh, so you’re shutting me out _again_!”

Lacey’s indignant voice followed him as he headed for the door, but he didn’t look back, pulling open the door and heading out into the cold air that bit at his cheeks.  He prayed she wouldn’t follow, but of course she did, heels clicking and the door banging shut behind her.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she shouted after him.  “What the hell is wrong with you?  You tell me you love me and then the next minute you throw me out?  What the fuck is _that_ about?”

“Go home, Lacey,” he said coldly, turning down the alleyway.

“I won’t!”

She grabbed at his arm, making him turn to face her, and he forced himself to look at her, at Belle’s face and Belle’s eyes glaring at him above Belle’s soft mouth.  It made him want to cry again.

“I don’t understand you,” she said more calmly.  “Won’t you at least do me the bloody courtesy of explaining why I’m dumped with no warning?”

He was silent, and she shook her head.

“You know Alice is gonna kick your arse, right?”

“You stay away from Alice!” he snapped.

“Screw you!” she shot back.  “She’s my friend, and I’m guessing she’ll think you’re a prize dick for what you’ve done!”

“Well, she won’t think that when I’ve had a chance to explain, I assure you.”

“Oh, so you’ll explain to _her_ , but—”

She cut off, her eyes narrowing.

“You sound different,” she said.  “When did you become fucking _Scottish_?”

He closed his mouth with a snap, his jaw tightening, wanting to kick himself for letting his emotions make him careless, and was about to respond when she glanced past him, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open.

“No!” she shrieked.

Rumple was momentarily confused, but Weaver’s mind told him to turn and reach for his gun.  A man had shuffled into the alley, the hood of his coat pulled up but not hiding the familiar short form and bearded face of Donnie Schwartz, suspected employee of George King and Swyft driver of the mysterious cloaked woman.  Lacey had moved like lightning, slipping in between the two men and spreading her arms wide as Schwartz raised his gun.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled.  “Get the hell out of the way, you dumb bitch!”

“Don’t shoot him!”

“Out of the way, girl, or I’ll fucking plug you, I mean it!”

“No!”

Rumple barely heard the exchange, their shouts fading to indistinct murmurs, his fingers loosening on the gun in its holster.  Time seemed to slow, as though the air had thickened around him, his limbs heavy as he let his arms drop to his sides.  A sense of certainty flowed into his mind, bringing with it something that felt almost like inner peace, and he moved without thinking, stepping in front of Lacey as he heard the deafening crack of a gunshot.


End file.
